On the first day (of the rest of our lives)
and we are cold enough, after the long
poem of the previous evening, but we
know the words can’t touch us, now
a curfew flew over blacker bracken, how
we forgot that old blue devil tinsel shott
and we are cold enough, after the longer
Winter, snowdrops grow in her red attic
window, tincture so simple, land, sky, we
know the words can’t touch us while
a platform sucked over foliage, viaduct,
over fresher graffiti on melting water over
where we are cold, enough, after this long
poem, our previous evening, denizens of
a city, warmer, through stellar doric order,
we know the words can’t touch us, how
the Nicholson hung alongside the Peploe,
glowing, exquisite, so golder and pristine
and we are cold enough, after this longer
verse, know the words can’t touch us now.
